Smoke.
That was the first thing he smelled the next morning.
Then the screams.
He was out the door before he could think, sprinting down the slope toward the village to see what was happening. What he saw made him flinch Flames flickered at the northern gate. Horses. Black banners. Steel.
The Inquisition had come early.
Cael ducked behind a frost-bitten wall as riders moved through the streets. Three of them. Mark-hunters. Brand-binders. Enforcers of the Church of the Surviving Light. Their armor bore the old sigil: a sword piercing a sun.
The villagers didn't resist. They never did.
This time, they dragged two bodies behind their horses. One of them was twitching. The other burned, wrapped in blue fire.
A new awakening. One too raw to control.
Cael's chest blazed and ached in pain.
Before he knew it he bit down on his sleeve to keep from groaning aloud. The heat was building inside him. His vision blurred. The mark on his ribs throbbed in answer not hot, not painful, but cold and sharp, like a blade drawn too close to skin.
As soon as he regained his senses turned and fled as fast as he could.
He burst into the cottage, chest heaving.
His father was already dragging himself toward the far corner of the room, where a rug had been pulled back to reveal a worn trapdoor. The alcove below had once stored dried meat, winter supplies. But lately, it held only silence and dust.
"You can't stay out there," the old man rasped. "They're not just sweeping. They're looking for new awakened"
"They're not here for me" Carl said while drawing a hoarse breath
"They are," the old man snapped. "They don't know what you are. Not yet. But they feel it. The first mark is waking. The second… if they see it, they'll kill you before you can blink."
Cael's voice dropped. "I can fight."
"Not yet my son." .
As they heard the sound of footsteps in the snow, the old man said in a hurried tone.
"Get beneath the floor. Stay still. Don't speak. Not even if I scream."
Cael hesitated.
"Now," his father hissed.
Cael climbed down into the dark. The hatch closed. The rug was thrown back over the trapdoor. Dust filled his nose. He wanted to sneeze but couldn't, he had to stay silent. He curled into the space and waited, every muscle rigid.
Then the front door burst open.
Voices.
Steel.
And silence.
Above, time stretched.
The air in the crawlspace turned sour with sweat and fear. Cael gripped his wrist to keep from trembling. His chest ached. Both marks throbbed one heat, one frost.
The cottage door slammed open with a crash of wind and iron. Boots stomped across the stone floor, tracking slush and ash as three dark figures entered.
The old man didn't move.
He sat in his old chair, hands folded over a heavy wool blanket. The fire had long since burned down to a sullen glow.
Two soldiers, armor blackened from travel, flanked the one in the center a woman dressed in muted gray robes, head shaven clean, with a thin silver circlet pressed against her brow. A Seer.
"You are Darian of Greyroot," said the lead soldier.
"I used to be," the old man replied. "Now I'm just a ghost with lungs."
"We're not here for pleasantries," the second soldier snapped. "We know you've been hiding someone."
The Seer stepped forward, silent until now. She breathed in through her nose, slowly, deliberately.
"He was here," she said softly. "Hours ago. Maybe less."
She turned to face the hearth.
"The flame still lingers. A bright pulse. The Mark is strong in him. Divine. He carries the touch of the Fallen God."
The lead soldier nodded."We take him," the other added. "Alive or burned."
Darian snorted. "He's gone."
"For how long?" the Seer asked.
"I told him to run when you came sniffing."
The second soldier stepped forward, grabbed Darian by the front of his shirt, and slammed him back in the chair. "You think you're clever? You're hiding a god's spark in your house and expect mercy?"
"I expect nothing," Darian hissed. "Least of all from butchers in armor."
The soldier raised a fist and struck the old man so hard that a few teeth fell out.
Then the seer told him to stop
"I feel his mark still clinging to this place," she said, eyes narrowing. "He is young, but strong. Our god's fire burns strong within him"
She closed her eyes and said in an engroced tone. "It's beautiful and clean. Pure. No corruption. No distortion. We need to find him a soon as possible. "
She took a step back, gaze sweeping the room one last time.
"There is no veil. No hidden magic. No deception. The boy's mark burns bright. Nothing else."
Darian coughed a small sound, almost a laugh.
"Nothing else," he repeated under his breath.
The Seer looked at him, eyes sharp. "He is not here now. But he will return. They always return, in the meantime we will go look for him inside the forest even though there is little chance that he's there."
She turned and walked out without another word. The soldiers followed, one glaring back at the old man.
"Next time we come, cripple," he growled, "we won't ask nicely."
The door slammed shut.
[After the Soldiers Leave]
The floor creaked.
Cael pushed the trapdoor open and emerged, breath tight, pale face.
"They felt it," he said quietly. "The Mark. Like any of the others."
Darian nodded, dabbing blood from the side of his mouth.
"They only saw what they expected to find."
"But they didn't feel the second one."
"No," Darian said. "They didn't even know how to look."
He reached forward, grasping Cael's wrist, eyes fierce despite the pain.
"They think you're just another ember of the dead god. But you're more than that. You're what comes after."
Cael looked down at his hand, flexing it.
A faint warmth pulsed beneath his skin.
"I don't feel it yet."
"You will," Darian said. "And when you do… gods help us all."